by Alana White
Guid'Antonio was about to ring the service bell when Luca hurried from the curtained back room, carrying a leather-bound journal in one hand. His eyes flickered with surprise when he saw the Vespuccis, and he slid the journal onto a shelf beneath the counter.
Why? Guid'Antonio wondered. And: That diary might make interesting reading. To know Luca Landucci's most private thoughts about the last two years. Come to think of it, conduct a raid on the house of every illustrious Florentine family, and you would have an interesting account of Florentine history, since every man who could scribble words with a pen kept a private chronicle during his lifetime.
“Surely, neither of you has taken ill since I saw you yesterday morning in Mercato Nuovo?” Luca said.
“No. Maria's mother is ailing.”
“I'm sorry. Her symptoms?” Luca said, crossing himself.
“Stomach pains, fever, chills. Dottore Camerlini is dosing her with crushed pearls.”
A grumble rose up in Luca's throat. “Dottore Camerlini! Those crackpot remedies are expensive, that's what doctors are about today! Has he administered an enema?”
“Oh, God,” Amerigo breathed.
“I don't know,” Guid'Antonio said. He had thought to ask Francesca Vernacci to look in on Alessandra del Vigna in Santa Croce. And then, he had thought not. Selfish? Yes. But he could not suffer being together with the good doctor and Maria in the same room. Not again.
Luca held up his hands: No matter. “I'm sure he examined the lady's urine.” He glanced at the scales on the counter and at the small statue of Hygeia positioned there. Luca Landucci was thinking. On the shelves behind Luca, Guid'Antonio noted the druggist's well-worn copy of the Antidotario, the apothecary's textbook.
Luca did not refer to it. Instead, from beneath the counter, he removed a small chest bound with bands of tinned iron. He unlocked the chest with the key from his leather purse, and from the purse removed a second key. Behind the counter in a neat row stood metal vessels with secured lids. Luca unlocked one of these and carefully measured a small portion of seeds into a waxed packet.
Amerigo, his gaze roving the pharmacy, pointed to the remnants of a snake on the ledge at his left shoulder. Head, tail, skin, the latter whispery thin.
“Yes,” Luca said, looking up from his scale, “that slippery fellow's innards made a fine tonic, once I removed the poisonous sac. But for your mother-in-law, Messer Vespucci, we have roasted cannabis seeds. Inhaling the fumes will help her relax and induce sleep.”
“May I have some?” Amerigo inserted neatly.
Luca handed Guid'Antonio the seed-filled packet. “I'll send round a betony conserve later today. 'Tis good for all disorders. And you should have—the woman who's head of your kitchen? Domenica Ridolfi—have her mix some sweet basil leaves in wine as a tonic to soothe the lady.”
Guid'Antonio nodded agreement. “Thank you.”
But Luca was not finished. “Here's a small portion of wolfsbane mixed with oils. Your wife or the lady's nurse should rub the patient's aching joints with it, and—” From another vessel, Luca measured a small amount of fragrant oil into a glass vial into which he inserted a stopper. “From Damascus,” he said, his tone reverent. “Attar of roses. Tell your wife to bathe her mother's skin twice daily with it. That, along with all the others, should bring the unfortunate lady rest. And with rest comes peace.”
Is that what I need? Guid'Antonio wondered. Fragrant Attar of roses? He drew a faint breath and smiled weakly.
“Has she been ill long?” Luca asked.
“From what I understand, no.” Guid'Antonio raised his shoulders. “But the outcome's certain.”
“Faith,” Luca said, and the three men crossed themselves. “ 'Tis a pity to succumb to sickness now, after surviving the trials and tribulations of the last few years.”
“Which trials?” Guid'Antonio said. “There seem to be so many.”
Luca held his hands out in a gesture of dismay. “Christmastime this past year was a disaster! You know Messer Bongiovanni's houses?”
Guid'Antonio nodded yes. Bongiovanni Gianfiggliazzi's houses sat near Ponte Trinita, this side the river. “The Arno overflowed its banks opposite there,” Luca said.
Amerigo's eyebrows arrowed up. “Again?”
“It was a disaster,” Luca said. “Water flooded the meadow-land all along Borg'Ognissanti. People lost their possessions, their homes even. A good number had to flee. The stench afterward was terrible.”
Guid'Antonio frowned. “Amerigo, did you know about this?”
Amerigo shook his head. “Apparently, we weren't affected. Directly, I mean.”
Ognissanti, flooded, and no one in the family had mentioned it to either of them. But what good would have it have done for anyone to bring the flood to Guid'Antonio's attention? Last Christmas he was in Paris, pacing and staring into the hearth fire, praying Lorenzo would survive Naples. What use notifying him about his beleaguered neighborhood? About his house, his church, his hospital?
“As if excommunication and the terror of war weren't already enough, God unleashed the rains on us,” Luca was saying. “Since then, has our lot improved? No.”
“Yet you're still a Florentine, rather than Neapolitan or Roman, as you would be if King Ferrante and Pope Sixtus IV had had their way,” Guid'Antonio said, staring at him.
A faint blush came up on the other man's skin. “Yes, praise God and Lorenzo.”
Guid'Antonio handed Luca payment for the medicines in his scrip. “Luca, how would you go about making a painting weep?”
The druggist gasped. “I never would do such a thing!”
Guid'Antonio raised both hands lightly. “I only wonder how it might be done.”
“Our Lord simply has to wish it.”
“But if a mortal being were involved,” Guid'Antonio pressed. “What then? Someone employing trickery. Water, probably, on the painting's surface.”
“That wouldn't be very good for it, would it?” Amerigo said. “A centuries' old panel—”
Guid'Antonio raised his eyebrows, and Amerigo fell silent.
Luca's eyes flicked anxiously to the wasps embroidered in white on Guid'Antonio's plain collar and in the gold trim of Amerigo's pale blue tunic. Straightening to his full height, he said, “I would never think about such a sinful act.”
Guid'Antonio felt a pound of impatience tempered with a teaspoon of regret. He had no wish to intimidate the druggist, who was a good, kind man. He did not want to play lion to Luca Landucci's mouse. The truth was he needed Luca's help, and one way or another, he meant to have it.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Curiosity led me there, nothing more.” And wasn't that a whopping lie? “You're aware of the unusual circumstances in Ognissanti. The Virgin's tears are a great concern to Lorenzo, and so as well to me. To all Florentines. To Tuscany. No one wants a civil war in our streets except our enemies.”
“Yes,” Luca conceded. “I mean—no.”
Guid'Antonio started toward the door, smiling good-bye in an off-handed way, as if he regretted mentioning the making of miracles, and was, therefore, dropping the subject. He was not. “Luca,” he said, turning. “Yesterday, we spoke of the palio. I'm curious about your brother's mount.”
“Since when?” Amerigo said.
“Since now.” Guid'Antonio smiled at Luca. “Does Gostanzo always ride Draghetto?”
“Yes.” Luca's countenance brightened considerably. “Such a mighty specimen of horseflesh!” Just as suddenly, the druggist's brown eyes narrowed. “Everyone knows my brother, Gostanzo, and they know Draghetto, too. The animal's stout heart and how Gostanzo makes him move. Then there's Lorenzo, with a dozen magnificent horses. More! Who knows which mount he'll have his man ride in any race, or how Lorenzo plans to win, whether or not he deserves the prize?”
The druggist caught himself up, shaking with indignation. “This summer everyone in Tuscany has been gambling against the Landuccis.”
“They're not complete dunces,” Amerigo said
.
Luca looked pained. Gloomily, he said, “The final running isn't till next month, and already the banner's lost to Il Magnifico.”
Guid'Antonio disagreed. “Gostanzo's competitive and Draghetto's a frontrunner. If your brother had the name of Lorenzo's horse before the final race, he could plan a winning strategy.”
“Of course,” Luca agreed. “But no one in Christendom knows which horse Lorenzo de' Medici will run on any given day, let alone on the day of the championship race.”
“I do,” Guid'Antonio said. “Or I will.” He smiled guilelessly.
Luca blinked in surprise. “You?”
“Me.”
A mix of conflicting emotions battled across Luca's face. “Strategy is everything.”
“Yes,” Guid'Antonio said, and turned back toward the shop door.
He and Amerigo were on the threshold and the skin on the back of Guid'Antonio's neck was prickling when from behind them in a quiet voice Luca said, “One moment, please.”
Guid'Antonio whirled around. “Yes?”
“If I by chance discover anything that might possibly explain the workings of certain mysteries in Ognissanti, where should I send word?”
“To me at home,” Guid'Antonio quickly said. “If I'm absent, instruct your messenger to tell Amerigo or Cesare you wish to see me at once. I'll come to you.”
“I'll be in touch,” Luca said, smiling wickedly. “You can bet your last florin on it. And I will, too.”
“How in the name of Zeus will you get Lorenzo to give you the name of his horse before the race so you can pass it along to our new accomplice?” Amerigo said when they were back out in the street. “Should Luca actually discover how the painting's being made to weep.”
“I'll ask him,” Guid'Antonio said.
FOURTEEN
In the gray hours just before daybreak, Tesoro clatters, lost and without a rider, through the Prato Gate and along the deserted thoroughfare where stone dwellings soar to the sky, hemming in the stars of summer high overhead. Close, these buildings, unlike the rolling hills of home, though a memory does stir, this smell of stone rather than lush grass and rich brown earth. The mare has seen this place before.
Close, too, harsh cries and footsteps pounding nearer down the street. “Stop! Stop, you!”
Dead ahead, fire rings a broad piazza. More cries ring out, bouncing against stone. Tesoro rears, neighing shrilly, hooves pawing the air. To one side there is a blind black passageway, to the other, the smell of warm river water. Tired. Exhausted. Heaving. The mare rolls her eyes in terror. Where is she?
Where?
Where?
FIFTEEN
Guid'Antonio stared heavy-lidded at his journal. He had brought the leather bound book from the bedchamber into the small space of his studiolo, leaving the connecting door ajar, but then had left the cover latched. He had spent the last two days staring idiotically at things and questioning a few people and was not much the wiser for it. Now, after sitting through a hastily called meeting of the Medici faction's insiders deep into the night, he felt like a man hurtling down a snowy mountain slope, while an avalanche pounded after him with such force, it seemed bound to crush him beneath its awesome weight.
In the suffocating early hours after midnight, he had left Palazzo Medici and found his way home to Ognissanti with every bone in his body pleading for rest as he followed winding paths through a web of alleyways and stinking streets. In bed, his eyes wide, as if propped open with sticks, he had stared up at the red velvet canopy whose gathers and pleats in the guttering candlelight were not bright scarlet but deep bruised red.
Now, isolated amongst vaguely lit papers and books, he dipped his pen.
Riding through the Prato Gate with Amerigo two mornings ago, I never thought to be greeted by such discord in my lady city. Contrary to all expectations, Pope Sixtus IV has not lifted the ecclesiastical penalties he imposed on us at the outset of our fight with him, his nephew, and their fearsome accomplice, King Ferrante of Naples. Instead, the Pontiff continues to demand Lorenzo's presence in Rome. As if that were not cruel enough, Prince Alfonso has not departed Siena on our southern border as we expected him to do once we signed a treaty with his father's kingdom. Instead, the Neapolitan prince acts as lord there in the guise of Florence's military protector while our tax money pays his commission. Ludicrous: this is how Florentines do things.
Closer to home, a young woman has been kidnapped or killed at the hands of Turks, or so some fools believe. Since news of Camilla Rossi da Vinci's disappearance reached Florence a little over a week ago, the Virgin Mary of Santa Maria Impruneta has been seen—once—weeping in my family church, terrorizing those who interpret the tears as a sign of God's anger with Florence for warring with the Pope, and for Lorenzo's refusal to go to Rome and kneel before him. You would think the sky was raining blood down on our heads. I'm told that at the outset of this holy madness, people rushed the altar in my church, lighting candles and weeping floods of their own, even the desperately poor, offering the monks coins, rather than feeding their own children. On Saturday last the painting's tears ceased, praise Jesus and His mother. Still, the popolo minuto grumble and blame us for everything.
Guid'Antonio experienced an unflattering vision of himself striding into Ognissanti and breaking the centuries-old panel painting over his knee with both fists and shook his head to clear it.
Now, fresh torments delivered to City Hall by two couriers late yesterday afternoon as Amerigo and I were on our way to speak with Luca Landucci at the Sign of the Stars to enlist his help in Ognissanti. We had just finished our conversation with him and stepped back out onto Canto Tornaquinci when Cesare found us there. “Lorenzo wants you in Via Larga.” And so of course, good Medici man that I am, I immediately turned toward the Medici Palace.
Although we gathered in Lorenzo de' Medici's house, Lorenzo's uncle, Tommaso Soderini, spoke first, informing us the Pope has now joined hands with Venice. I glanced at Lorenzo, surprised. Yes, said his dark eyes, gazing back at me: the Pope is on the move.
Together, Sixtus IV and the Venetians have contributed eight hundred infantrymen toward the security of Forli town on Via Emilia. Forli's fate is of paramount importance to us, since it separates us from the Adriatic Sea. The Pope's nephew and assassin Girolamo Riario will fight to add Forli to his holdings the instant the town's sickly young lord, Sinibaldo Ordelaffi, passes from this world. With Papal and Venetian troops at his command, Girolamo stands close to creating an independent state for himself in Italy, while isolating us in the presence of our enemies.
All this as his uncle, the Pope, pats Girolamo's ass and urges him forward.
When Tommaso finished speaking, rather than seem completely helpless when it comes to Girolamo's creeping advances, Lorenzo addressed the immediate needs of our city, asking for more grain to be imported as soon as possible and made available for a reasonable price to the people in the marketplace. He did not say how he thought Tommaso and the other Lord Priors might accomplish this. Since Lorenzo's war with Rome, the State treasury is appallingly low. Mercenary soldiers, armor and weapons, compensation for horses wounded, killed, or captured in battle, and so on.
“Whatever it takes, we must keep people satiated, so we may keep our place in our town. I will donate a good portion to the hospitals for bread, along with wine and oil,” Lorenzo said.
Around the table, everyone present murmured how gladly we would follow his lead. As for how to curb Girolamo's constant advances, Lorenzo vowed he will think of something. We cannot muster forces against Rome and Venice. Florence is limping as it is. I watched Lorenzo carefully. I know that resolute tone, and I heard the iron in his voice. People do not call him Lorenzo the Magnificent for nothing. I suspect he already has a plan for the future, not only of Florence, but for all Italy, or has the beginning of something taking shape in his head.
12 July In the Year of Our Lord 1480
Guid'Antonio Vespucci, Florence
Guid'Anton
io massaged his hands, blinking, blurry-eyed in the wavering yellow light of the airless studiolo. The renegade treaty between Rome and Venice worried him. Everything worried him and left him unprepared for daybreak. How could matters get any worse? He was sliding his pen into its case when he heard the rush of footsteps, and they were very near. Leaping up, he pulled his dagger and darted into the bedchamber just as the door flew open.
SIXTEEN
Amerigo bounded in. “Wake up, Uncle! Oh!” The sight of Guid'Antonio waiting with knife drawn slowed Amerigo only momentarily. “Uncle Guid'Antonio,” he said, stepping back, quivering with excitement. “The girl's dead! Murdered!”
“Girl?” Guid'Antonio sheathed his blade and locked his journal away for safekeeping. “Camilla, you mean? Where was she found, quickly.” Impossible! Never would he have thought matters would come to this.
“Ummm—” Amerigo faltered. “Not exactly found, Uncle. Yet.”
Guid'Antonio stared. “Murder is an exact word, is it not?”
Droplets of rain dripped off Amerigo's cloak and puddled on the floor. “Of course, yes,” he said, “but her horse galloped through the Prato Gate a short while ago. With no rider, its saddle and harness bloody.”
“Fresh or dried?” Guid'Antonio said.
“What?”
“The blood.”
The fragrant water Guid'Antonio splashed on his cheeks did nothing to calm the heat beneath his skin. Swiftly, he glanced around. Where the devil was Cesare when he needed him?
Amerigo handed him a towel. “Who knows? Whether the blood was fresh or dried, I mean.”
Guid'Antonio located his boots beside the bed. “And now once again, the Virgin is weeping in Ognissanti. That's smart and quick.”
“Yes.” A wrinkle furrowed Amerigo's brow. “How did you know the Virgin's weeping again?”
“Complete faith in my fellow man. When it comes to knowing, how did you happen by this information?”